Creative Creativity
by Lizzleby
Summary: Drabbles. Just little vents of creativity, nothing special. :3 May have one-word title things that inspired it. The universes will vary.
1. Intense

This marks the start of a series of drabbles that'll _probably_ center around a certain pairing, just because I'm super OCD like that. But I won't promise that it will, because sometimes I'm hit by a muse and it's something entirely different.

There are what I said: drabbles. They're short and relatively plot-less. Something I've probably spit out (unedited, oh Primus help us all) just to make my inner Voice of Creativity shut up. Some (like this one) may be what earn this "fic" the rating of "M." ;D

This one came to be because my muse snuck up behind me and hit me over the head with something hard. While I was unconscious, it slipped into my brain and wrote this short thing, then took control of my body and typed it up. It's movie-verse, (probably) set during the first movie, because my muse decided to be detailed, for once.

Enjoy, and feel free to review!

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**Intense**

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Hands, such tiny, cool hands, touching him, stroking and petting everything they could reach. He could feel the angles of knees against his windshields, a pleasant weight, as those questing fingers searched his chest plates. They ghosted over him, tips only barely touching, focusing on _finding it_, achieving their goal. They framed his windshields, mapping its proportions, pressing harder here and there, determined, and _oh Primus there it was_.

He let out a rumble, somewhere between a groan and a purr of his engine, and those fingers paused for a moment. He could see the smirk even through offlined optics, feel the satisfaction radiating from the form on his chest. The fingers pressed down again, harder, and he shook a little with the effort not to arch his back. He felt gears and cords moving inside him, responding to the touch now dragging up and down along the seam in his chest plates. Slowly, they worked into the seam, wiggling a little and sending delightful shocks through his neural network of circuits. His engine roared for a moment, drowning out his moan of pleasure and defeat.

A simple internal command from his CPU was all it took to throw the gears inside him into motion. They sped up, retracting his plates, the two windshields separating. He heard a soft curse of surprise and the barest smile tugged at his lip components for a split second.

As soon as his plates were locked into their positions, exposing the very core of him, he onlined his optics. A bright blue glow was the first thing he saw, but looking past it he could make out the small, lithe form still crouched on the left half of his chest. Their gazes met, and behind that deep brown stare he saw a flicker of blue. Then the moment was broken as the boy looked away, back into the glow.

He offlined his optics again, preferring to feel everything and see nothing. He felt hands and knees carry a light body to the edge of the hole in his chest, could _feel_ the burning gaze examining his spark. His essence pulsed in response, and he knew the whole room had been illuminated for that short moment. A small groan told him that his partner was pleasured by such a reaction, and tingles flew through his circuits again. He could feel the energy slowly building up, and he knew it wouldn't take much of this practiced routine for him to reach his peak.

It began as simple touch, a graze of a cool fingertip over a bundle of wires. His internal fans kicked in and he shuddered, unable to resist the urge to arch up. The boy was not thrown from him, however; he merely gripped the edge of the panel and hung on, hand still reaching down. He wrapped his fingers around the bundle he'd previously grazed, rubbing ever so gently with the pad of his thumb. His temperature was cool enough against the heating metal that it brought a shiver to the bot's back strut. His own huge fingers curled up into a similarly giant palm, making a tremendous effort to keep from stopping the incessant teasing of that thumb, the slow, torturous stroking of the _whole hand_ up and down the bundle of wires.

"Please," he croaked out. He could swear his processor was physically splitting in two.

The boy didn't say anything, but he tightened his grip. A pressure and the sensation of cloth moving over his chest told the mech that he was pulling himself forward. He didn't stop until his entire top half was dangling into the hole, waist pressed against the thin edge of his chest plate. Fingers grazed his spark chamber. He cried out before offlining his voice capacitor, unwilling to be a loud as unchecked reactions dictated. A gentle slap to some cords, another brush of the chamber, and a _mouth_, gloriously wet and strangely cool, against that previous bundle of nerves had him bringing it back online. So his lover wanted him to be vocal. He would oblige.

It wasn't long before he was sure he was drowning in sensation. Lips, a tongue, teeth, fingers and finger_nails_ and a firm grip teased and tormented him, each one somehow managing to touch a different part of him. More than once those gentle, fleshy, cool digits brushed his spark chamber, and each time he jerked, intakes hitching in response. His core temperature shot up, and he vaguely wondered why the boy was unharmed by the hot metal before remembering the circumstances. He moaned, engine revving as he began to shudder. Electricity crackled through his circuits, his spark pulsed faster and glowed brighter. He became almost completely unrestrained, twitching and grunting in response to anything that sent a tingle through him.

He felt the boy slide a little further into his chest, just enough to do the most amazing thing. His right hand abandoned the cord it had been toying with and gave his spark chamber a firm caress. The beginning shudders of overload started, but the boy wasn't done; he slid his hand into one of the cracks in the casing, the ones much to small for a Cybertronian but just big enough for a human hand, and_ touched his spark._

With a violent jerk that almost sent the boy tumbling into the depths of his chest and a cry that nearly shook the walls, Optimus Prime overloaded. Acutely aware of the fingers still gripping the edge of his chest plate, he called out to his lover.

"Sam!"

A small moan was all the response he heard, but he knew the other had found release as well.

Then, as the tremors began to subside, his intakes trying to regulate themselves, and the slight weight disappeared from his chest, Optimus onlined his optics and spoke a different name, the name of his true lover,

"Bumblebee..."

He sat up, still shaking a little, and a yellow hand reached out to support him. The touch was gentle, the coolness all too familiar. The blue mech lifted his head, focusing on the kind face positioned lower than his. The mouthpiece prevented any kind of motion as he spoke, but the mech's voice clearly came through his newly repaired voice capacitor.

"That was more intense than last time," he said softly, poking fun at his commander and bondmate.

Optimus chuckled and shook his helm, reaching out to play with Bumblebee's right antenna. The small bot's optics narrowed with a smile that his non-mouth couldn't display, and he snuggled himself closer. His optics shuttered when Optimus closed his chest, plunging the pair into darkness.

A few minutes later, the two fell into recharge together, wishing the universe would remain this peaceful forever.


	2. Rambunctiousness

A/N: Another little drabble I did. This one's set in G1 (please forgive any errors in characterization and such; I've seen all of one episode of G1. ^^;). It was inspired by masterofall's icon, over on deviantArt. Thanks once again to my wonderful girlfriend for giving me the inspiration with nothing more than a few words.

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**Rambunctiousness**

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In retrospect, maybe having a weekly party night wasn't the best idea.

It had been suggested by Jazz, backed by Bumblebee and Hound--even Prowl had agreed. The uptight police car, usually a stickler for the rules, had reasoned that having a night devoted to relaxation and the consumption of energon would be helpful in raising the general morale. Ratchet's opinion was that he didn't care, just as long as no one tried to persuade him to join the festivities. Red Alert was cautious about it, worried it might attract the attention of the Decepticons, but mostly supportive; First Aid just asked that no one be sent to the repair bay.

So, after enduring endless pleas and prodding, Optimus had decided that he could allow his soldiers one night a week to open up and do virtually whatever they wanted. Short of destroying the Autobot base, of course.

The decision was met with an uproar of approval, and the first night was set for that Friday. Spike and his father came, but they only watched the party, turning down the few energon cubes that were offered to them. Occasionally they prodded Jazz into doing something foolish, the most extreme being him donning a massive lampshade, dancing around with a cube of energon in hand, and proclaiming that he was the life of the party. Everyone laughed and egged him on; even Prowl smiled and suggested he stand atop a table.

Optimus Prime, as the Autobot commander, remained painfully sober, doing his best to keep his mechs in line. The twins, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, took advantage of the disorder to play all sorts of pranks. They rivaled Jazz in volume and overall obnoxiousness, even going as far as to drag Ratchet from his quarters--against his many struggles and demands to be left alone--and try to get him to join in. As soon as their attention was diverted to something else (a suspicious something that involved several cubes of energon and Jazz's lampshade of earlier) the old medic slunk away again and made sure no one could make him leave his quarters a second time.

Before the night was even half over, Optimus had a massive processor ache. He'd retreated to a corner of the recreational room, hoping that removing himself as much as possible from the clamor would ease the pain in his helm. However, with a thumping beat that (in)conveniently matched the pounding behind his optics and filled the room, not to mention the drunken shouts and horrible singing of most of the Autobots, he wasn't likely to feel any better. He doubted there was much he could do to make the pain worse, either, short of beating his head against the wall.

"'Ay, 'ay, lookit, I'm Starscream!" shouted Sunstreaker over the music. Everyone looked at him, including Optimus, just in time to see him launch himself from the table, arms outstretched like the human superhero Superman. As he sailed his short trajectory path through the air, he opened his mouth and let out a high-pitched, insane scream, silencing only when he landed in the crowd of his fellow soldiers. Prowl and First Aid just barely managed to catch him, helping him get to his feet again.

After that, the twins took turns jumping from the table and shrieking in a crude, horrible impression of the Decepticon second-in-command. Each time they were caught by their comrades, and each time the ache in Optimus's processor increased. Eventually, he shuttered his optics, stood up from his chair, faced the wall, and began the steady rhythm of knocking the front of his helm into it. He braced himself with his hands, and managed to get away with beating his helm against the wall for almost five minutes before Prowl noticed. The tactician fought his way across the room and laid a concerned hand on his superior's shoulder. Optimus looked up, taking a moment to focus on the figure standing in front of him. He vaguely noted that having to consciously focus his optics couldn't possibly be a good thing.

"Are you alright?" asked the police car, hand still on the red truck's shoulder.

Optimus nodded, forcing a tired kind look to his gaze, cursing the fact that he had a mask permanently in place over his mouth. "Yes. I just didn't anticipate this level of...rambunctiousness," he said, making sure to speak loudly and clearly over the music. "Perhaps next time the party should only be for three hours instead of five."

Prowl didn't answer, instead looking to the chaos the still ensued. Both Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were jumping off the table simultaneously, and First Aid was darting to and fro nervously, anticipating (while trying at all costs to avoid) their injury. Jazz and Bumblebee were laughing raucously, and more than one Autobot had passed out from over-indulging in energon. Red Alert firmly put a stop to the twins' antics (_Primus bless him, _thought Optimus wearily) and Hound even turned the music down. It seemed things were finally calming.

Then Jazz called out to anybot still conscious, "I pr'pose tha' nex' week we all play a game!"

"What kind of game?" asked Bumblebee, speaking slowly to avoid a slur.

"I'unno, somethin' tha' involves..." he paused for dramatic effect, then boomed, "stripping!"

As Jazz and Bumblebee collapsed into a fit of joyous laughter, Spike and his father put their heads in their hands. Optimus gave an almost mournful sigh before turning and resuming the process of indenting his head into the wall. Prowl just shook his head and walked away; maybe he'd choose next week to follow Ratchet's example and just hole up in his quarters all night.


	3. Horse Power

Inspired by seeing the show "Horse Power" and wanted to write some Transformers stuff but feeling too lazy to update _Tainted Love_. XD Very, very short, and equally inappropriate. Movie-verse.

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**Horse Power**

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Optimus had to admit, he'd become used to--even entertained by--human television programs. Bumblebee watched them occasionally, when he was relaxing with Sam, but the others didn't see the point in them. Constructed realities that circulated around drama--often with a dozen or so people living together for an extended period of time--seemed to be the most popular, and Ratchet in particular turned his nasal sensors up at them. Ironhide flat out didn't grasp the entertainment factor in not blowing up anything. Especially when the humans spent huge amounts of time and money on it. All other Autobots had only just recently arrived and were still adjusting to how different life was on the blue planet.

But in his free time, Optimus Prime _liked_ to watch television. He would find himself absorbed in the constructed realities, wondering what drama would happen between which two (or three or four) humans. His favorite show was Survivor; it was riveting to see how _hard_ it was for humankind to be separated from technology for what seemed to him like a very short amount of time. He couldn't help but picture himself in their place, and would always shake his head at their…antics.

Right now was one of those times were Optimus had a few minutes to himself, but Sam and his female mate Mikaela already held control of the television. Mikaela, being the engine junkie she was, had insisted they watch a show called "Horse Power" on the Spike network. Optimus hadn't really been paying attention to the point of the show, because he was far too absorbed in what those human hands were _doing_ to the half-assembled engine.

Vaguely, his processors registered what his audio sensors were picking up, "You just slick up the bolt with some oil and screw it right into the proper hole…make sure it's all the way in. Nice and tight."

Cybertronians had no use for pornography, because they were much more open about their sexuality. The humans were ashamed of the act, and used means like that to stimulate themselves. Cybertronians, if they wanted release, either did it themselves or sought out a friend. To them, asking for an overload from someone they knew was just like asking for a simple favor. Nothing more than a simple "please" and "thank you" involved.

But this show almost made Optimus wish that his kind _did_ have pornography. It was certainly stimulating, watching the erotic things those fingers were doing to the brand-new, pristine parts. The humans handled every nut and bolt with a tender care he'd only seen Mikaela give. These people really loved their jobs, really loved cars, and holy Primus those fingers sliding up and down, _stroking, _that clean camshaft made him really love them. His engine purred as he imagined those fingers, so small in comparison to his parts, touch him in such a way.

As his imagination drifted away, Optimus crept away from the window he'd been peering through. He had important personal matters to attend to, and (given the Prime's position) he was sure Bumblebee could spare a few minutes from patrol.


	4. Recreation

A/N: Oh, the wonders of crack!fics...

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**Recreation**

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_Tap-tap-tap--_

_WHAMSMACK-tap-tap-tap-taptaptap...tap._

A sigh. The soft 'clang' of metal peds taking a few steps across an equally metal floor. The same steps returning those peds to their original position.

A pause. Another sigh.

"_WHAT_?"

"I keep telling you to hit it _softly_. You keep _attacking_ it."

"Decepticons don't _do_ 'softly,' little Autobot," hissed Starscream, optics narrowing. "And if I still had my null rays you'd see a _real_ attack." He added something else under his breath; only the words "thrusters" and "fly away" carried across the room, but they were enough to figure out what it was.

"Okay, well, you _don't_ have them, and since you're stuck here, _Decepticon_, you'd better _learn_ to do 'softly'," retorted Bumblebee, adjusting his grip on the huge (by human standards) wooden handle he held. "You're the one who was complaining about being bored out of your processor. Just be glad boss-bot is the one you were captured by. And that we can't ship you to Cybertron right away," he added.

"But when I asked for something to do, _this_ is _not_ what I had in processor."

"Too bad." Bumblebee shrugged and set down the blue paddle he held, along with the little (by Cybertronian standards) white ball. "But since you're our _guest,_--" he shook his helm, grumbling silently over the word Optimus had designated for their _prisoner_ "--if you don't want to do this, I can take you back to your cell."

Starscream folded his arms (really, when had _pink_ been designated a threatening color?) over his chassis, obscuring part of his orange cockpit. He averted his red optics, muttering, "I just don't want to take part in _human_ recreation."

Now the yellow bot was getting annoyed. He cycled a deep intake of air, reminding himself once again that he was not allowed to assault the Seeker. Why Optimus had ordered any sort of kindness toward the 'Con second-in-command was beyond him, but he wasn't about to do something that would have his leader on his skid plates for the next few solar cycles.

"It's this," he said slowly, carefully, "or sitting in your cell. All alone. With _nothing_ to do, and _no one_ to talk to." _Which I would prefer, he added silently._

Bumblebee knew he'd won by the way Starscream's faceplates fell a little.

Cycling another deep intake of air, he steeled himself and buckled in for the ride. Teaching a Decepticon a human game like Ping-Pong was certainly not going to be the smoothest adventure.

He swore he was going to get Bulkhead and Sari back for skipping out and leaving him alone on 'Entertain the Prisoner' duty.


	5. Fear

A/N: I've been in a bit of a writing slump lately. I'm hoping this will help clear it up a little.

MIGHT continue this into some sort of real story-thing, but...not likely. =/

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**Fear**

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Fear, dark, raw, _sickening_, shot through his body with the return of consciousness. It took hold of his stomach, flipped it over in a bizarre, nauseating somersault, and then tied it into knots so tight they cause him to curl in on himself.

His breathing became ragged even as he lay still, skin prickling, pupils dilated to their full extent in a vain attempt to see something in the smothering blackness around him. He got to his feet slowly, tensing at even the soft hiss of his clothing rustling over his skin. His nerves stood at attention, straining to prepare him for whatever was surely going to happen.

Trying to control his breathing, he strained his ears as much as his eyes, desperate to hear something, _anything_.

Silence greeted him. Complete and still.

"Hello?"

He meant to shout, to break that terrifying stillness, but the only thing his dry throat produced was a cracked whisper. Even that made him flinch, seeming deafening in the utter quiet that weighed on his ears. Still, he was determined, and he licked his lips. Swallowed. Drew breath to shout, to shatter the silence and, hopefully, rip apart the blanket of darkness. He opened his mouth and--stopped.

He heard something. Very faint.

Clicking.

And...grinding.

Incredibly tiny beeps and blips and pings.

Machinery.

"Hello?" He did cry out that time, desperation bleeding into his voice, crashing against the walls that were suddenly much too close.

The sounds stopped, leaving a cautious silence in their wake. He could feel it.

"Who's there? Hey!" His voice cracked again; he ignored it. "Let me out! ...where am I?"

His voice rose in pitch, straining to stay above a whisper. The returned silence and still-unbroken darkness creeped him out, shutting him up more effectively than a hand to his mouth could have. He shivered, but feared moving to hug himself. Feared lashing out. He couldn't move from where he stood, not knowing if there was something waiting to trip him up or swallow him whole.

His questions and demands went unanswered. The Silence and Stillness returned. Crushing him.

Skin prickling again and unable to shake the feeling of being watched, Sam Witwicky stood perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. Waiting.


	6. Hormones

A/N: Just a silly little Harry Potter drabble. It has a lot of potential, but I lack the creativity. D= If anyone wants to continue it, feel free to do so. Just send me a link in a PM or something. =]  
Also, I know I put it with my TF drabbles, but would you really rather I waste a whole clump of coding to give this roughly-100-word drabble its own slot?

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**Hormones**

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When he agreed to teach the Potter brat Occlumency, he regretfully failed to acknowledge that the boy was a teenager. With hormones. And hormones would always, inevitably, lead to sexual activities, regardless of whether or not the _children _in possession of them had magic in their blood.

Catching glimpses of Potter and the Chang girl snogging wasn't so bad, but once he delved deeper and caught glimpses of familiar grey eyes and pale blond hair--and the rare flash of that God-awful orange--Severus Snape had to admit that he was both repulsed and intrigued.

Mostly repulsed.

But hormones or no...what could lead Draco to become intimate with Harry Potter?


End file.
